


A hazy shade of winter

by brothebro



Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Gratuitous Swearing, Growing Old, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Identity Reveal, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier is the grandad of the wolf school, Light Angst, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Some Humor, Swordfighting, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Ye olde Witcher Jaskier verse, no beta we die like the wyvern
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24524770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: Julian is old and so terribly tired. His muscles need more and more time to recuperate after each hunt, his joints ache days before a thunderstorm hits, his scars itch and pull horribly every time he so much as does a wrong movement. And that is only to be anticipated.He’s lived for so long. So long. He’s been here since the beginning, since before the Witchers were called Witchers the first time. Since all their order was, was a few monks in Temeria that agreed to be mutated in order to drive off the hordes of monsters plaguing the lands. He was there when Kaer Morhen was built; in fact, he helped build all of the Northern keeps. He’s trained countless of Witchers, he’s witnessed more than he’d like, perish in the hands of monsters, elves, humans.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir
Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735504
Comments: 32
Kudos: 531





	A hazy shade of winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheJaskiestOfThemAll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJaskiestOfThemAll/gifts).



> The title is from the song "A hazy shade of winter" by Simon & Garfunkel  
> because I have listened to it some 200 times the past days :D 
> 
> Enjoy<3

Julian is old and so terribly tired. His muscles need more and more time to recuperate after each hunt, his joints ache days before a thunderstorm hits, his scars itch and pull horribly every time he so much as does a wrong movement. And that is only to be anticipated. 

He’s lived for so long. So long. He’s been here since the beginning, since before the Witchers were called Witchers the first time. Since all their order was, was a few monks in Temeria that agreed to be mutated in order to drive off the hordes of monsters plaguing the lands. He was there when Kaer Morhen was built; in fact, he helped build all of the Northern keeps. He’s trained countless of Witchers, he’s witnessed more than he’d like, perish in the hands of monsters, elves, humans. 

So many dead. So many of them children, losing the greatest battle of all. The trials. 

It weighs on him. It weighs like the whole world is laying on his shoulders. It was necessary, he says to himself. It was necessary. Yet, the more time passes the more he doesn’t see a point to it. He wants to stop this madness. And he does. 

As anyone, really, he too has his breaking point. For him, it’s when the mages of Kaer Morhen want to temper with the trials to create bigger, stronger, faster Witchers. It’s bad enough that only three out of ten children survive the first part of the process, the trial of Grasses. And now they want to give to the children even more mutagens, lowering their success rate even more? He forbids them to. 

They go behind his back and do it anyway. A single child survives, his hair turns bright white from the process, the stress, the pain-- he doesn’t know. 

He is absolutely livid. He goes after their books first and then after their lives. He attacks them. It’s the hardest battle of his life but he survives. The mages are less lucky. 

For-- gods-- six-seven centuries he’s been around. It’s the first time he wants to escape his life, leave it all behind. But he’s the Grandmaster of Kaer Morhen, an out isn’t as easy as he wishes it to be. He must name a successor. The keep must remain protected. 

A name flashes in his mind. 

_ Vesemir.  _

His brightest, kindest most compassionate pupil. A dearest friend, a son.

Vesemir is reluctant at first, but the Path has not been kind to him. Near a century of fighting monsters is enough for him, so he accepts. Julian promises to meet up with him every few years in a little Kaedweni town near the keep. When Vesemir asks him why he won’t return to the keep he sighs and simply shrugs.

So he travels. Seasons pass, then years, then decades. 

He’s so tired. His appearance might be that of a spritely man in his early sixties, salt and pepper hair and beard to match, still lithe as a youngling. The only dead giveaway of his mutant nature his huge cornflower blue irises, that leave barely any white of the sclera, and his slit cat-like pupils. 

He’s ancient. His joints do not lie. And neither do his memories. He’ll surely meet his end at a monster’s nest. Fighting. Valiant. Like so many of his kind. 

It’s selfish but he doesn’t want it to end like this. He wants a shot at a normal life, a human life. Mundane and safe and full of the love he never could experience. He knows he doesn’t deserve this, so many lives ruined, so many innocent people hated because of the order --his order.  _ So many souls all alone in the unforgiving world.  _

There’s one place left that could give him what he desires. And fortunately for him, its masters owe him an insurmountable debt. Their school would not exist without him. Yet another mistake. He’s done so many in his impossibly long life. But he couldn’t have known, he reasons. 

_ He couldn’t have known. All he wished for was the people of the Continent to live their beautifully short lives in peace. He didn’t account on their greed. _

So he sets course to Aretuza. 

The rectoress of the illustrious school will not deny his wishes. And he’s right. Tissaia helps him out no questions asked. It’s going to be difficult she says, what he asks of her. She cannot undo his mutations, she cannot give him a brand new life. But she can hide his nature, so that nor mage nor Witcher will be able to tell who he is and she can share with him the deepest secret of Aretuza’s sorceress’. The potion of youth. 

A glamour and a potion. It’s good enough for him so he accepts. 

He takes the potion first. He sees years of damage on his skin recede; the scars accumulated by the many battles stay though. He feels, or rather he doesn’t. He doesn’t hurt all over anymore. A tension that was ever-present vanishes and he sighs in relief. 

He steals a glance at his reflection on Tissaia’s ornate full-body mirror. 

By the gods, he looks barely eighteen. The salt and pepper mop of hair remain though. 

He tries the glamour next; an unsuspecting copper coloured ring. The image before him shifts and he’s face to face with a youngling. A very human youngling. Salt and pepper replaced by warm brown, scars hidden, eyes inconspicuously human. Tissaia even informed him that any injury he might end up getting will project as human to the onlookers. A fancy little addition, not needed but appreciated. 

“What will you do now Master Julian?” Tissaia asks humbly, her eyes never meeting his. 

“I will live,” he responds smiling warmly. 

And he does. 

After Aretuza he’s off to Oxenfurt, the lively city, the gem of Pontar. He falls in love with it immediately. The culture! The people! Everything is so beautiful, so calm. So he makes the decision to study there. It will be a challenge, really. To learn the way of humans after so many centuries of being out of touch. He assumes a new identity; Julian Alfred Pankratz, last son of a disgraced Viscount, though he quickly changes his mind and decides to go by Jaskier instead. 

It’s much more poetic this way. A small yellow -- _ yellow like his children’s eyes _ \-- tenacious flower, delicate and poisonous --much like his order. 

He thrives in the Academy of Arts. He ends up engaged to music, to poetry, to the lute. It’s a passionate love, he had never had the pleasure to experience before. 

He has an affair with people. They intrigue him. They enthral him. He gives love freely and he permits himself to receive affections and care. And for the first time in forever, he feels young. Young and happy.

_ And alive. _

But all good things must come to an end, and while his stay at Oxenfurt the past four years was fantastic he feels the road calling to him. He was never one to stay at one place for too long. Even as the Grandmaster of Kaer Morhen he would trudge the path for at the very least a season each year. 

He packs his not so humble belongings, finest silks and writing supplies, as well as his gorgeous sexy lute and he’s off to experience the world. To finally create something rather than destroy. 

He hops from village to village, lute in hand, singing and dancing. The crowd might be tough sometimes -- who is he trying to fool? Most of the time. Yes, he might earn his food in the form of heckling via stale bread, but he’s still enjoying life. He’s so much more thick-skinned than he lets on. 

His dance across the Continent leads him to Posada. A tiny, albeit architecturally odd village. And there, among stale bread and piss-ale is where he sees the Witcher. It’s one of his pups, he can smell the crisp smell of Kaer Morhen on him. But he can also smell heartbreak and loneliness on him. 

_ That’s a lie, he can’t. But he recognises the man. He was so tiny the last time he saw him. So tiny and scared. _

And he’s heard of this particular Wolf Witcher before, in his travels. The Butcher of Blaviken. Geralt of Rivia. What a fiasco really. Tissaia had informed him that it stank of Stregobor’s handiwork. That fucking bastard. Jaskier never liked him, he is convinced the man doesn’t have all of his marbles intact, experimenting on innocent girls just because they happened to be born under an eclipse. 

He knows what the incident did to Geralt’s reputation --to Witchers’ reputation. His poor children, once met with respect, are now spit upon, chased from towns. 

Jaskier makes his mind, right here, right now, to help Geralt as much as he can. The plan is simple really; priority number one: fix his image problem by singing songs of the young wolf’s valiant deeds, and two: stay by his side as a friend. 

By now, Jaskier the Bard, Julian the Witcher, has a pretty good understanding of how the world operates, how people think. (Despite singing absolute horrid horseshit songs because he enjoys riling up folks) He’s confident he’ll be able to change the public’s opinion on all things non-human if he tries. But for the time being let’s focus on one certain white-haired Witcher. 

And that’s what he does. He follows Geralt to a contract about a devil, which is laughable really because devils went extinct half a millennia ago. He was still pretty young then, he remembers. It ends up being a Sylvan stealing crops from the villagers, and of course, it is. Next thing he knows, they are ambushed and brought into some pitiful encampment in the location of Dol Blathanna, city of elves. He pretends to be unconscious all the way there, striking up a plan to get them out of this situation alive and unharmed.  _ He really does not want to harm the elves.  _ And fortunately neither does Geralt.  _ He knew he was a good bean!  _

So when Filavandrel enters the scene and Geralt --bless his soul-- tries to reason with him but the other is sceptical Jaskier pipes in, speaking Elder like he hasn’t done in ages. 

“Listen, boy,” he says, locking eyes with the elf king, “What you are doing here has no meaning. The pup is right, leave, rebuilt, fight back but most importantly survive.” The elf king opens his mouth to speak but Jaskier shushes him, “Let me finish boy. I’ve witnessed what happened to your people, the injustice of the word, the vileness of it all. The world is not a fair place. But living like this, can you really call it living at all?” The elves’ gaze is fixed at the cold hard ground. “I thought so. So do an old man a favour and live. It’s worth it, believe me,” he flashes them a sad smile. 

Filavandrel lets them go and gifts Jaskier his elven lute as a replacement for his mishandled previous instrument. Geralt gives his payment for the contract to the starving elves. Truly a good lad. 

Geralt is silent all the way down the mountain, deep in thought.

“What did you say to them bard?” he finally inquires. 

Ah, he doesn’t know Elder. Or at least not well enough to understand everything Jaskier said to the elves.  _ He’ll have to have a word with Vesemir.  _ A Witcher should be able to communicate without a problem with all sentient species. 

“First of all my name is Jaskier, not bard,” he says with a smile bringing a hand to his chest, “Secondly, I only strengthened your case. You are welcome by the way.”

Geralt hums. What this means still eludes Jaskier as he does not speak the mysterious hum-tongue of the younger Witcher. But he’ll get to it, he has all the time in the world. 

“I’ve decided!” he announces, “I will become your barker. Just you wait and even in the shitiest hovel of the Continent they will be singing the heroic deeds of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Butcher--” he regrets it the moment it leaves his lips. He can feel the anger of the young Witcher. 

_ Fuck.  _ He sees the punch coming his way but he doesn’t dodge it even though he easily could. It connects straight with his abdomen and if he were human it would hurt a lot more than it does now, no denying that. 

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes out, “Yep. Totally deserved that.”

Somehow, after this tragic mistake of Jaskier, they still end up travelling together. For months Jaskier has been begging Geralt to take him along in a hunt; he’s curious to see if the younger generation’s training differs from what he taught in Kaer Morhen near a century ago. Geralt meticulously makes sure Jaskier will stay put, obviously worried that a fragile human could never survive the experience. 

It amuses Jaskier to no end, to be thought a harmless human.

Since Geralt won’t let him come with, he will have to count on his sneaking skills. Which are to say, rusty at best. Years of prancing around as a colourful target of a troubadour does that to you, after all. So he dresses in his darkest, least movement restricted silks (because at this point he owns nothing but silks -- _ curse his vanity _ ) and follows the white-haired Witcher from a safe distance, out of the other’s earshot. 

What he witnesses he does not like at all. Geralt’s form is, well… not outright terrible, but it’s wrong. His hold of the sword is reckless, his movements while impossibly fast lack the refinement and grace of an experienced fighter. And while Geralt has many decades of witchering on his back, he’s managed to accumulate a number of bad habits that could potentially get him killed. No wonder his skin is riddled with so many scars. 

Jaskier curses silently. 

_ Too open! Secure your side! Use that damn Igni boy! No no no! Your legs are too far apart! _

He’s itching to correct the younger Witcher but he knows it’s not his place to do so. Especially in the middle of a battle with such a fearsome opponent as this Bruxa. So he chokes-down his teacher instincts, promising to repress them until an appropriate chance arises. 

Thank Melitelle, Geralt slays the Bruxa with minimal wounds to show the struggle. 

After that Jaskier keeps following the younger Witcher on his contracts to make sure the other won’t die a horrible death if he can help it. Luckily, for the next two --no, four-- years, there isn’t a need to step in and save the reckless pup. Sure, there are occasions he’s wounded but it’s never serious and Jaskier always makes sure the wounds are sewn closed and treated properly. 

He even tries to correct Geralt’s absolutely disastrous form by coaxing him into teaching the seemingly young and inexperienced bard how to wield a sword. But gods is that pup dense as a rock.

He gives up after a while. After all, he left his old life behind for a reason. He wanted to get away from all this… instructing and training and Witchering. But as he’s ready to go back to being a happy go lucky bard, Geralt invites him to spend the winter at Kaer Morhen. 

And all comes rushing back to him. The trials, the slaughter, the fire. Endless years of doing the same things over and over and over again.

_ Damn it all thrice. _

But the pup genuinely thinks of him as his friend and so does he. He doesn’t want to disappoint him. And as a bonus, he’ll see his son again after what, near a decade wearing the mask of the troubadour.  _ It's been longer than a decade since you last met your son, Julian,  _ his mind supplies. 

He’ll go with Geralt this time. 

The trek to the Blue Mountains is, well, difficult to say the least. While he’s walked this path hundreds upon hundreds of times and while it’s not especially physically tiring there’s a weight on his shoulders that gets heavier and heavier as they get closer to the keep of the Wolves. Geralt does not notice when he’s slowed down, or perhaps he does and acclimates it to Jaskier’s perceived human nature. In any case, he does not say anything about it, even when Jaskier stops babbling and singing. 

_ He’s grateful for it.  _

Kaer Morhen looms imposing over them. It’s in worse shape than when he left it. It’s natural, with the Witcher numbers around the world dwindling steadily --he made sure it wouldn’t be easy to make new ones after all-- there isn’t enough manpower to mend the keep, to keep it in its original pristine state. 

He braces himself, plasters a noncommittal smile on his face and lets Geralt accompany him to the big wooden door of the outer walls. Like the rest of the castle, it’s worn with age, he notices.

“This way,” Geralt says and pushes at an inconspicuous spot on the wooden door. To Jaskier’s surprise, a small hidden door within the door opens allowing them access to Kaer Morhen’s courtyard.

_ This wasn’t here last time.  _ And it definitely wasn’t included on the build plans of the keep when his long-dead friend designed it. This isn’t wise; it’s a hole in the keep’s security. He’ll have to have words with Vesemir. Serious words. He should have reinforced security after that… massacre so many years ago, not diminish it. 

Jaskier doesn’t say anything for now. 

They pass the barren, half-destroyed yard and enter the main hall of the keep. It’s almost the same as Jaskier remembers it to be. Sure, there is new furniture and some are missing but it still has that same homey aura. Even when it’s nought but two people waiting for them there. A stark contrast from the liveliest days of the school where the wooden tables would be chock-full of Witchers returning for the winter, drinking and joking and exchanging stories. 

_ He always loved this part of his School.  _

_ He didn’t love the hurt it caused. The pain. The death.  _

He doesn’t manage to catch himself from sighing audibly, which alerts the two other Witchers in the room who now fix those golden eyes of theirs upon him. 

“Geralt! Who the fuck is this?” a young Witcher that has a scar on his right eye and that Jaskier is positive has never met before --though he could be one of Geralt’s peers, he does not remember-- points a finger to the bard. But before Geralt can answer or Jaskier has the chance to introduce himself Vesemir stands up and all but tackles the unfortunate bard to the ground, hugging him tightly.    
  
“You’re alive, master!” Vesemir exclaims. 

“Of course I am, pup. I am deeply offended you thought me dead,” he jokes and hugs his son back, “It’s good to see you Ves.” 

Vesemir pats him on the back and releases the hug. 

“You know each other?” Geralt asks quizzically and Jaskier nods carefully, “How come you never mentioned it, Jaskier?”

“And why the fuck do you call our Master ‘pup’, bard?” the same young Witcher pipes in from the table across the room before Jaskier can answer Geralt’s question. 

“Oh shush, Lambert,” Vesemir says to the younger Witcher.  _ So, Lambert’s his name,  _ Jaskier mentally notes. “The man’s family.” 

Jaskier finds himself smiling widely at this.  _ Family indeed.  _

“Oh-ho-ho! I see,  _ I see _ ,” Lambert smirks, “Your lady Mignole--” he doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Geralt cuts him off. 

“Don’t be stupid. You do realise that’s not physically possible, don’t you?”

“Of course I do you prick! It was a fucking joke Geralt!” Lambert retorts, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, right,” Geralt scoffs.

_ Ah, to be young again. _

Jaskier feels a hand on his back. “Let’s leave, find a quiet place to catch up and let the boys fight to their heart’s content,” Vesemir whispers. 

They climb the stairs to the Grandmaster’s room, the room he hasn’t been in for --fuck-- almost a hundred years.  _ It’s unchanged,  _ he notices,  _ and well kept, considering…  _ Vesemir bombards him with questions. About the path, about his travels, about his new bardic persona and renewed looks. And Jaskier, he answers them all without fail. 

And he asks questions as well. About the attack on his keep, how many survived, if the path’s been kind to Vesemir (it hasn’t). About Mignole. And he listens meticulously. 

_ Sweet Melitelle, only four of his pups survived. Only four.  _ It saddens him to no end. It makes his stomach burn with guilt and his eyes well up with unshed tears. 

“I should have been here,” he says to Vesemir. 

“You couldn’t have known,” he responds, so much kindness in those gold eyes of his. 

He knows his son is right, though he hates to admit it. He’s been selfish, that’s a truth. He’s always been selfish and to a degree, he accepts that fact.

They speak till the sun rises, painting everything in a cold grey hue.  _ It’s going to snow.  _ Vesemir tires first, his advanced age showing.  _ It’s ironic really, considering how much older Jaskier, no, Julian is. _ Maybe he should ask Tissaia for a youth potion for his son. Vesemir bids Jaskier goodnight -- though it’s more of a good morning now -- and leaves him to rest in the Grandmaster’s room. 

Jaskier arches a brow, “I thought you would have moved to this room after I left, son. After all, it has the best view,” he says softly, gazing at the sunrise from the big window. 

Vesemir shakes his head, “I couldn’t. Rest well, father,” he turns to leave.

“Ves,” he calls and the grey-haired Witcher stops at the doorstep turning to face him. “Maybe, don’t tell the pups who I am. I may have left this information out the past few years I’ve been travelling with Geralt,” he admits, his voice small. 

“ _ Father, _ ” Vesemir scolds and right he does.

“I know, I know,” he puts his hands up defensively, “I will tell him, I promise. When the time is right.  _ But for now… _ ” a small smirk forms on his lips.

“What absurd plan have you concocted this time?” Vesemir crosses his arms. 

“Nothing much, pup. I just think it will be an excellent learning experience for all the younglings to learn a trick or two.”

“Why? The pups are fine Witchers.” 

“Look. I’m going to be honest with you,” he says seriously, “Geralt’s form is abysmal at best. I tried many times to, well, teach him, correct him if you might but he does not take any of it seriously when we spar.”

“Geralt? Seriously?” Vesemir looks puzzled, “Physically, he’s the strongest of them all. Though he could work on his signs a bit.”

“And I don’t doubt that. He’s strong, yes, but he is incredibly reckless. I’m having a light aneurism every time I watch him fight.”

“Dramatic as always, father,” Vesemir rolls his eyes, “But fine, I’ll help you out.”

“Thank you, son.”

And so Vesemir becomes his partner in crime. The crime being, not an actual crime of course, but the simple ploy of sparring the young Wolves to near exhaustion while Jaskier sits comfortably on the velvet couch, strumming his lute and correcting Vesemir’s sword-fighting moves. The reasoning behind this is the essentially flawless five-year-old logic that if Vesemir shows to the younger pups that he’s taking Jaskier’s advice seriously by extension the pups will listen to Jaskier’s advice as well. 

It… well… It does not go as well as anticipated. Lambert and Geralt have teamed up and are protesting against the bard and the master of the keep by using jeers and funny insults. For now, they refuse to spar when the bard is watching and are waiting for their last brother, Eskel, to arrive at the keep. What they are planning, is still a mystery to Jaskier, but he highly doubts it’s something intricate. 

Eskel arrives a week later, delayed from the heavy snow that covered the path to Kaer Morhen only four days prior. One thing Jaskier notices about the newcomer is that he is an incredibly polite individual who, by some unknown reason, travelled with-- aside from his majestic steed-- a small goat.  _ Curious.  _ But he won’t pry as to why a goat, clear result of a contract payment through the law of surprise, made its way to the Witchers’ keep and not a farmers’ market.

Luckily, with Eskel back, Vesemir can push the pups to stop neglecting training. A slow Witcher is a dead Witcher after all. 

But with their newfound strength in numbers, the young Wolves veto Jaskier’s training meddling and ban him completely from watching the training sessions resigning him to cooking and cleaning duties. While he does not mind the tasks at all --he actually enjoys cooking (he writes a song or two about pies)-- he makes sure to complain relentlessly about his unfair and unjust banishment at every chance he gets. 

The winter passes quickly, a daily routine of chores, training, Gwent and the obligatory absolute destruction of the keep’s alcohol supplies.  _ Like old times. _ Spring is nearing but the thick snow and ice haven’t thawed yet and so they have no choice but to continue with their routine. It has gotten incredibly dull after a while. And Jaskier is still banned from overseeing the sparing sessions--  _ fucking hell. _

“I am bored,” he announces one day at lunch. Not a soul pays attention to him though and instead resume the devouring of a half-cooked stag. Jaskier gets up, climbs atop the table and ignoring the grunts of protest of his fellow Wolves. “ I. Am. Bored,” he announces once more, stressing at the words. 

_ Because he really is. Utterly and completely bored. _

“Get down, Jaskier,” Geralt hisses. 

“Master...please,” Vesemir pleads, “What do you want to do?”

“I still don’t understand why you speak to the brat like that,” Lambert mutters under his breath. 

“Lambert, leave them be. It’s none of our business,” Eskel says -- _ what a good lad he is _ .

Jaskier sits cross-legged on the table, careful as to not destroy his fine baby blue silken breeches with bloody venison. “I want to be allowed at spars,” he says pouting. 

_ The whole point to spending a whole winter holed up in Kaer Morhen was to help the lads after all.  _ It will break his heart if anything happens to them.

“Not a fucking chance,” Geralt crosses his arms.

“Yeah,” Lambert pipes in, “You are fucking insufferable, bard. All you do is trying to ‘teach’ us moves. As if you’ve ever held a sword in your life.” 

“ _ Rude _ , youngling,” Jaskier retorts.

“The fuck did you call me bard! I’m at least two times your pitiful age,” Lambert all but screams at this point. At this Jaskier cannot contain his laughter, loud and obnoxious.  _ Oh how utterly wrong the pup is.  _

“Now, now. Calm down, boys. There’s a way all of you can be happy and also learn a thing,” Vesemir says calmly, “I have a better idea.”

“Do tell,” Jaskier is intrigued. They have not talked about a new plan to help the young Witchers hone their Witchering skills all winter. 

“We’ll have Jaskier take a contract, or more realistically clear out the closest wyvern nest that  _ you  _ Lambert refused to do before the snows settled, and you boys will be watching from a safe distance,” Vesemir explains.

“Oh! I love this idea,” Jaskier claps his hands excitedly.

“Absolutely not,” Geralt growls, “He will die Vesemir!”

_ Aw, the gruff White Wolf cares for little old Jaskier.  _ He feels a smile creeping up on him but decides to repress it, pursing his lips in a pout instead.

“ _ Rude _ . I’ll have you know I am a very competent fighter, Geralt.”

“Master’s right,” Vesemir nods, “He’s one of the best swordsmen in the Continent.”

Geralt exhales deeply, having realised his words have no power here. Lambert stares incredulously and only Eskel smiles, seeming aboard with the plan. 

“Come on, brothers,” Eskel says, “Aren’t you the least curious to see his skills?”

“You have not sparred with him Eskel,” Geralt says gruffly, “I’m not sure he should be allowed in close proximity to a blade.” Jaskier gasps dramatically at this, placing an open palm on his chest. 

“Still, as Vesemir said we’ll all be close by, I’m sure we can save him if the need arises. And it’s one wyvern. I doubt it can do much against four Witchers.”

_ Five Witchers, _ Jaskier thinks but does not correct Eskel. 

“Fine,” Geralt rolls his eyes, “We can save the fool when everything goes to fuck.”

“Your trust in me has me in tears, really Geralt,” Jaskier says dryly and turns to face Vesemir, “Do we still have the spare training armours, laddie? I can’t very well fight in my silks, they’re incredibly expensive, let me tell you. And woooh! Wyvern blood is a bitch to clean off the silk.”

“We do still have those,” Vesemir replies, “In the old armoury. I gotta warn you though, master. They might need repairs.”

“Very well then,” Jaskier says climbing off the table. He peeks behind his shoulder as he starts walking towards the armoury, “I have an armour to repair and to acquaint myself with the sword again. See you in a week pups. Ta-ta!” he waves.

“Wait, I’ll come to help you,” Vesemir says and moves towards him. 

Jaskier smiles fondly, “Thanks, son,” he says, his voice in impossibly low volume so that only Vesemir will be able to hear him. 

“ Alright, so the old man's either gone senile or developed a fucking sense of humour, place your bets, everyone,” Lambert whispers when he thinks Vesemir and Jaskier are out of earshot.  _ Hah! Joke’s on him! _ Jaskier can hear him perfectly well. 

“Humour,” Geralt says, accompanied by the sound of coins clanking on the table.

“Clearly humour,” Eskel agrees. 

Jaskier doesn’t stay to listen to Lambert’s bet even though he’s positive the youngling would choose ‘senile’ for shits and giggles. 

Vesemir helps Jaskier all week, first fixing an old leather armour with a few metallic shoulder and knee guards to fit him and then by sparring with him to make sure he won’t need any help with defeating the pitiful wyvern. Turns out, muscle memory is a thing -- and of course, it is-- and near eight centuries of Witchering have imprinted the movements in his very bones. 

_ He suddenly feels very old again. _

After the decided span of seven days has passed, Jaskier emerges from the old armoury armed to the teeth and ready to give the performance of a lifetime. Silver sword in hand, wolf medallion hanging above his heart, he walks to the main hall in confident strides. He’s fashionably late, all the pups armed and ready waiting for him to go to the hunt. 

“You’re late, bard” Geralt states the obvious.

“ A Witcher is never late nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to,” Jaskier paraphrases a quote he heard a wizard say an eternity ago and grins, gesturing to the group of younger Witchers to follow him.

“Little shit, fancies himself a Witcher,” Lambert mutters under his breath, shaking his head and that only makes Jaskier’s grin wider. 

Jaskier starts singing a nonsense song about Wyverns --he takes special care to ‘confuse’ the monster’s weak points with those of ghouls-- during the short trek to the nest, that serve only the purpose of irritating and worrying the younglings. Vesemir goes along with his shenanigans, joining in the singing of the utter bullshit of a song. 

“I can’t believe we’re going to lose the bet, Geralt,” Jaskier hears Eskel murmur at some point. It takes all of his concentration to not laugh at this remark. Wouldn’t want to alert all the Wyverns living in the Blue Mountains. Thank you very much but he’ll pass.

He leaves the boys behind once they are near the nest. He can barely see it, yonder atop the rocky formation, but it’s there alright. His nose does not lie. He does not look back but he can tell the pups are still following him, presumably to get a better view of the battle.

_ Or save his ass if the need arises.  _ But it won't come to that, surely.

Jaskier tip-toes theatrically to the position of the nest, where he can now see the massive figure of a wyvern curled up.

_ Melitelle’s tits! That’s a royal wyvern!  _

Three times the size of a regular one and ten times more dangerous. 

_ Oh, fun! _

He downs a bottle of Golden Oriole and gives up all theatrics in favour of actual --possibly lifesaving-- stealth. He approaches it silently, steadies the sword in his hand and aims for the vulnerable spot at the base of the wings. It connects and the creature screeches deafeningly loud.

Why the wings? The heart is too well protected to reach from this angle and he certainly won't go for the head lest he wants the beast to smell him. Furthermore, it would have been catastrophic if the beast suddenly took to the sky. Better ground it for good and worry about landing a killing blow later. 

As expected the royal wyvern flaps its massive wings to move to its favoured way of offence, namely aerial attacks. But its left wing stays limp on the ground.  _ Textbook behaviour.  _ It quickly opts for its claws and strong leathery tail to dispatch of the human-shaped threat in front of it. 

At the moment Jaskier rolls out of the way, the tail missing him by mere centimetres he registers Vesemir scolding the pups to stay put and watch. Jaskier plants his feet to the ground and with a half pirouette his blade connects with the wyvern’s winged claw-y limb. Bones get crushed from the force of the impact and the creature now properly enraged snaps its neck and aims its hundreds of sharp fangs at Jaskier’s free hand. 

He doesn't have time to dodge.  _ Fuck _ . He really really likes his hand as well. 

_ Maybe... No. It's too risky.  _

_ Aw, fuck it. _

As the enormous jaw of the wyvern intends to swallow his arm completely, he forms the sign of Igni and he smells the roasted meat of the beast's insides. He pulls his hand out quickly, his sturdy leather glove getting shred to thin strips accompanied by the soft skin of his arm and hand. It hurts like a motherfucker, the toxin trying to work its way in his system and yep, definitely leaving brand new fancy scars. Good thing he took the potion before the battle. 

The glamoured ring that lies on his finger gets caught on an extra sharp tooth as he pulls the last of his hand out of the monster’s mouth, which results in it falling into the burning abyss that is the wyvern’s oesophagus.  _ Brilliant. _

He registers Geralt growling at Vesemir to let him go help. ‘I don’t want Jaskier to lose his hand’ he says. ‘He’s my best friend’ he says. It moves him, it really does. 

But it’s not the time to be distracted. He rolls out of the way of the wyvern’s tail that’s flailing about, the creature obviously distressed from its burning insides. He finds himself back to back with the White Wolf. 

“Go back Geralt,” he hisses and dodges another swipe of the spiky tail, positioning himself closer to the massive scaly body of the wyvern.  _ If he can get on its back the fight will be over. _

“Not a fucking chance Jaskier,” Geralt growls through gritted teeth slashing widely, incapacitating the previously unharmed winged limbed of the beast. It falls with a thud on the ground as it can no longer keep its balance on two legs. It screeches horribly snapping its still fuming neck towards the two Witchers in a futile attempt to crush them.

This gives Jaskier the time window he needs to leap on its back and thrust his sword on its thorax. Repeatedly.    
  
After what is probably at least two dozen stabs and Jaskier is drenched in ichor and blood the beast stops moving. 

“And that’s how you do it,” he says triumphally jumping gracefully from the back of the thing. He does not pay much attention to the visibly shaking Geralt and proceeds to flip the wyvern on its belly.  _ Holy fuck is the thing heavy! _

As he’s about to gut the thing to fish for his ring (he really hopes the acids on its stomach did not corrode it) he feels a reluctant hand on his shoulder. He turns and his huge blue irises meet Geralt’s bright yellow.

“Let me see your arm,” Geralt says softly and his eyes go wide as plates when he meets a… somehow intact albeit very bloody arm, “I thought the wyvern’s fire destroyed it.”

“Well, that is obviously not the case as you can see,” he says and pauses for a moment, “Wyverns don’t breath fire! Holy fuck Geralt! Not even Royal ones as this one clearly was!” he shouts and points a finger at Vesemir, “What the everloving fuck have you been teaching them, son?”

Vesemir’s face morphs into a grimace and he falls into a jog closing the distance between them. The other two pups follow behind him. 

“Then wh- what.” Geralt stammers. 

“Father, believe me, I had nothing to do with that. I taught them all you taught me,” Vesemir rushes and Jaskier, well, Julian now that the cat’s out of the bag, huffs, brows pressed together.

“The  _ fuck _ ?” Lambert demands, eyes darting between Vesemir and Julian. 

Julian sighs, “In chronological order: Geralt, all I did was cast Igni inside the wyvern’s mouth. Vesemir, nobody is leaving Kaer Morhen until they’ve reread and memorized the whole bestiary. Lambert, Vesemir is my Child Surprise. Now, all of you either bounce or help me find the fucking glamour!” he scans briefly the remaining pup with his eyes who’s already knelt down, sword in hand, cutting the belly of the beast open, “Thank you Eskel. You’re the only one with brains here, aren’t you?” he says and laughs at the cacophony of protests coming from the rest of the pups. 

“Ah, fuck,” Geralt says in a certain sudden realisation tone --as Julian likes to call it-- as if he’s just uncovered all the secrets of the known world. “You’re Grandmaster Julian.”

Julian hums in agreement focused on turning the wyvern inside out in search for his ring.

“Was this all a joke too?” Geralt inquires, his voice cracking. Julian knows he refers to their friendship. It pains him greatly that the pup believes that. 

“Of course not!” Julian rushes, “Look, Geralt. I am really sorry I didn’t tell you right away who I was. I admit in Posada, I initially approached you because I had heard what happened in Blaviken and I wanted to help you,” Julian notices Geralt flinching, his posture stiffening at the mention of Blaviken.  _ Shit. _ “My point is, none of the time we spent together was a joke. I really think of you as my dearest friend.”

Geralt grunts and moves close to the open body of the massive wyvern, bloodying his hands searching through its guts. “Let’s find your damn glamour, Jaskier,” he says in a low voice. 

Julian smiles widely at him, “Thank you Geralt. I really mean it.”

_ Nasty business this glamour seeking. Especially when his newly acquired wounds hurt so damn much. How rude of them. _

“Aw, cock!” Julian exclaims as he finds the precious item cracked beyond repair, stuck in the beast’s oesophagus. “Looks like I’m back for good, pups,” he smiles wetly, “Shame, I really enjoyed being a bard you know.”

“Do not worry, father,” Vesemir says, “You can always take back your position as master of the keep.”

“ _ Oh, fun,”  _ Julian says in a monotone voice and he’s apparently considered hilarious as all of Kaer Morhen’s Wolves laugh loudly. 

_ Or maybe he can wear a mask and continue prancing about the Continent, lute in hand and songs of his dear children ready at his lips.  _

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOOOOOOO BOY! this fic took so long to finish!  
> Started angsty, ended ridiculous. A prime example of my brilliant planning skills, or lack thereafter :D 
> 
> I hope you liked it :D 
> 
> The idea was @Jask-Jaskier-Jaskiest over at Tumblr :D Thank you so much <3 
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments<3  
> After all, I thirst for validation like a starving vampire thirsts for blood >:]  
> xoxo<3


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